He pointed with one sweep of his long arm to the quivering mass of green-gold foliage that swept from swamp to horizon.
“All yon golden fleece is Jason’s now,” he repeated.
‚ÄúI thought it was‚ÅÝ‚ÄîCresswell‚Äôs,‚Äù she said.
“That’s what I mean.”
She suddenly understood that the story had sunk deeply.
‚ÄúI am glad to hear you say that,‚Äù she said methodically, ‚Äúfor Jason was a brave adventurer‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“I thought he was a thief.”
‚ÄúOh, well‚ÅÝ‚Äîthose were other times.‚Äù
“The Cresswells are thieves now.”
Miss Taylor answered sharply.
“Bles, I am ashamed to hear you talk so of your neighbors simply because they are white.”
But Bles continued.
“This is the Black Sea,” he said, pointing to the dull cabins that crouched here and there upon the earth, with the dark twinkling of their black folk darting out to see the strangers ride by.
Despite herself Miss Taylor caught the allegory and half whispered, “Lo! the King himself!” as a black man almost rose from the tangled earth at their side. He was tall and thin and sombre-hued, with a carven face and thick gray hair.